


long summer days (can lead to lazy vices)

by sublime_jumbles



Series: 'til there was no more coast to wander [5]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Accidental Overeating, Belly Kink, Belly Rubs, Canon Compliant, Chubby Gansey, F/M, Fluff, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Non-Sexual Kink, Post-Canon, Post-The Raven King, Summer, Sweat, Weight Gain, asexual gansey, demisexual blue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-06-06 06:23:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15188729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sublime_jumbles/pseuds/sublime_jumbles
Summary: Gansey's air conditioning breaks down in the middle of a heatwave, so obviously the solution is milkshakes.(a love-hate letter to the current Boston heatwave; summer after junior year)





	long summer days (can lead to lazy vices)

**Author's Note:**

> title from "philomena" by the decemberists, smirk emoji smirk emoji
> 
> thank you to wy for throwing me a prompt and finally getting this bit out of my head!!! u rock!!

Gansey was not paying four thousand dollars a month for the air-co in his apartment to roll over dead in the middle of the worst heat wave New England had seen in years.

Nobody in New England called it _air-co_ , either, he was learning. He had phoned his landlord that morning, after waking up overheated and drenched with sweat beneath his bedsheets, and he had explained -- very politely, he thought, given his capital discomfort -- that it was broken and could it be fixed as soon as possible, even though it was Sunday.

“Oh … you mean the ayah conditionah?” his landlord had said, after a long moment during which his confusion was palpable, and Gansey had given his phone an unseemly look of incredulity and horror. His own accent was carefully curated and expertly deployed when a situation merited it, but this man did not pronounce _several_ of the key letters in the phrase, and _Gansey_ was the one who was unintelligible? 

The landlord, at any rate, had told him that the earliest they could get someone in would be Monday morning, and Gansey had hung up the phone, defeated and sticky. He had tried valiantly to ignore the rivulet of sweat running down his forehead. He lifted the hem of his polo to mop it, and when he collapsed onto the tasteful but sweat-slick leather couch in the living room, he became uncomfortably aware of the sweat gathering between the rolls at his sides. There had been no central air in Monmouth Manufacturing, but he and Ronan had fitted most of the windows with individual units each summer, and it had been bearable if not perfect. It had never been like _this_. He longed for Adam, who could have discerned the problem and sweet-talked it back into functioning in mere moments. 

He’d opened the windows, but that had only made things worse, and so he had shut them again and complained very pitifully to Blue via text that he was dying a third time, this time of heatstroke. For the first time since they’d begun college, she was not far -- she’d landed a summer internship at the arboretum, and Harvard had put her up in a dormitory in Cambridge, and for ten glorious weeks, she was just a quick drive or train ride from him.

He’d googled _ways to stay cool without AC_ and ordered a same-day delivery window unit and fan set that promised to deliver sometime around eight pm, and he had slumped lethargically between his bedroom and his living room for an hour or so, melting and feeling sorry for himself, and now he stood in the freezer aisle of Whole Foods, soaking up the cold air and choosing a treat. He’d had a pint of ice cream for breakfast to try to cool down, and another for lunch when the first one didn’t work, but that had wiped out his supply, and by late afternoon he was longing for something else to fill his stomach and distract him from how miserable he was.

 _Bougie_ , Blue texted back when he sent her a picture of the organic ice cream sandwiches he was considering.

She also sent a photo of herself in the woods, gleeful and grubby and covered in sweat. Gansey remembered with a shudder the many clammy summer afternoons he had spent in Fox Way’s determinedly tropical climate, when even the little cousins’ window clings had slipped from the glass in the humidity. Blue was probably immune to this kind of discomfort.

 _Come over then if you’re so brave_ , Gansey replied petulantly. _Maybe your swamp sensibilities will soothe my delicate constitution._

It was not on the level of a Ronan Lynch retort, but it brought the hooligan in question to mind all the same, and Gansey perked up a little bit, remembering there was a blender stashed in the lazy Susan of his kitchen. If he bought ice cream sandwiches, he could make himself milkshakes the way he and Ronan used to when the heat in Monmouth rose to uncivilized temperatures.

 _Save me an ice cream sandwich_ , said Blue, punctuated with an emoji blowing him a kiss. He tucked a second package under his arm. There were ten to a box, but who was to say that the air-co really _would_ be fixed by tomorrow?

He cranked the air in the Pig on the five-minute drive back to his apartment, and sat in it for a few minutes extra as a reward for surviving the night and making it outside when the temperature had risen above ninety degrees. Then he gathered his mettle and his ice cream sandwiches and trudged out into the wall of heat, and up the two floors of stairs to his apartment.

He thought Blue would have liked to know that he paused before his front door to catch his breath, overwhelmed by the heat and distracted by the tacky jiggle of his stomach as he took the stairs, but it seemed like yet another indignity imposed on him by the obscenity that was July, so he refrained.

He’d accidentally conditioned himself to take a moment to appreciate the sweet relief of cold air upon entering his apartment, but as he stepped back into the humid smog of the kitchen, he whined peevishly instead and gave himself a moment to catch his breath, palms braced against the cold granite of the countertop.

It was too bad he couldn’t press his entire body against the countertop, he thought, but then it occurred to him that nobody would see if he _did_ , so he hiked up his polo and braced himself on his elbows. He started a little at the pure cold, feeling himself reflexively suck his stomach in as quickly as if he’d sensed he was about to lose a button on an exhale. But the shock wore off after a moment, and he let the soft fat of his stomach spread against the stone. The cool was blessed, and he heard himself make a small, pleased sound as he soaked it up.

He dug the blender out of his cabinet and attached all its necessary components, then tore open one box of ice cream sandwiches and dumped them in. Ostensibly Henry had purchased it with the intention of making frozen margaritas, but left to his own devices, Gansey was much more prone to indulge in milkshakes. Henry was in Korea with his mother at the moment, doing something Gansey suspected was not entirely on the level, as dealings that _were_ on the level generally came with better WiFi than Henry currently appeared to have.

He smooshed the ice cream sandwiches down in the blender with a spoon, then added some of the half and half he kept in the fridge for coffee when Blue was around -- he preferred flavored creamer, and on a whim he added a little of that too, thinking that no one had ever gone _wrong_ by adding hazelnuts to ice cream.

As the blender whirred, guilt engulfed him, as hot and unpleasant as the weather, and he scrubbed down the kitchen counter where he’d lain on it. Three years out of Monmouth, and he was still desperately trying to prove to Blue that he had outgrown the juvenile sensibilities that had once allowed his fridge to exist within reach of his toilet.

The first sip of his milkshake was manna from heaven. It made more than he remembered, although he supposed that was because Ronan was not here to share it, so he divided it into two glasses, stuck one in the fridge, and splayed himself on the couch with the other. He snapped Blue a picture, sent one to Henry on the newly minted ChengAbroad international messaging app (in beta), and drank the rest in several long, unwise gulps. He would savor the other glass, he decided, as soon as he could peel himself off the couch to get it.

He took a breather and fanned his stomach with his shirt. It had begun to sit pleasantly on the tops of his thighs, and it was gently sunkissed and tan from a trip to the beach on Blue’s day off, and he felt rather satisfied with it, like a project he’d been working hard on had finally come to fruition. Which was not entirely untrue, except that he was not entirely sure that he was finished with it. The only second thoughts he’d had about it in a while had been this past week during the heatwave. He’d grown up in Virginia summers, of course, and he was used to heat and humidity, but Boston seemed -- worse. Wetter, somehow. Thicker. But then, he supposed, he was thicker now than he’d ever been when he lived in Virginia, and that was probably a contributing factor. 

Blue texted back, _Showering at my place, be there in 30._ Henry’s message still hadn’t sent all the way.

Gansey grinned despite the infernal way his thighs were sticking to the couch.

The first half of his milkshake was sitting pleasantly in his stomach, the memory of coolness buoying him, and he was just full enough that he considered waiting to have the other half. But the first one had been so cold and creamy and sweet, so much exactly what he wanted, and he deserved it after all of the suffering he’d endured today, and he had a second box of ice cream sandwiches in the freezer if he wanted more later. 

So he removed himself from the couch, wincing as his thighs smarted from where they’d begun to stick to the leather, and lumbered to the kitchen -- in this heat even the smallest of movements felt like lumbering. He’d rolled over for his glasses this morning and felt as though he’d gained another forty pounds in the night as he moved through the soupy air. 

He retrieved the other half of the milkshake from the fridge, and allowed himself to hike up the bottom of his shirt and rest his underbelly on the cold counter while he took a sip. Maybe this was an extremely concentrated sort of bliss -- a cold, sweet drink in his hand, a few inches of cold granite against the skin of his stomach. 

He let himself stay there for the duration of the milkshake, and, against his better judgment, wolfed it down like the tequila shots Ronan and Henry had once notoriously -- and traitorously, Gansey thought -- conspired to talk Gansey into doing at a bar in Allston. The milkshake went down much easier, and Gansey suspected he wouldn’t be found guilty of drunk-dialing Adam and Blue to tell them how much he loved them at four in the morning after the milkshake.

He scraped the last drops from his glass with a long-handled spoon, and half-raised a fist to stifle a thick burp before he remembered that no one was around to hear him.

 _Be there in 10,_ said Blue, _just going over the Charles now_.

He burped again and sent her a happy face and an ice cream cone, and lumbered back to the couch to wait for her, damp but sated. If he’d been pleasantly full after half of the milkshake, he was starting to feel a little pleasantly overfull after the second half.

He flopped onto his back and fanned himself with the hem of his shirt again. His stomach whined in protest, or possibly appreciation. He blew out a long exhale, trying to alleviate some of the tightness in his belly, but the longer he lay, the more he could feel it swelling, like he had gulped down two glasses of wet cement instead of milkshake. He gave a little groan, half discomfort and half satisfaction, and jostled his stomach to see if it would help, pushing and kneading at it like he’d seen Adam do with the bread he’d taken to baking in his dorm kitchen. At least this discomfort had been worth it, he thought. It was certainly a more welcome sort than the broken air conditioner.

His groans were starting to become more discomfort than satisfaction by the time Blue buzzed to be let in, and he hauled himself off the couch with an unhappy belch and waddled to the door, cradling his belly in his hands so it wouldn’t sag under its extra bloat more than it already did.

“Oh, you’re so sweaty,” she said with a pitying little laugh when he opened the door, standing on her tiptoes to tousle his damp hair. Her hair was damp, too, but it was frizzing from underneath in a way he recognized as Blue-who-had-just-taken-a-shower. “Ooh, yeah, you are sticky.”

“See!” he said, managing to sound accusing despite his aching stomach and genuine pleasure at seeing her. “It’s disgusting. Come into the living room. It’s not any better, but I want to lie down.”

She looked him up and down, taking in his stomach, bloated and cradled protectively. He burped, and she raised an eyebrow before following him back to the couch. 

He flopped onto his back, and she knelt on the hardwood floor to examine him as he rucked up his polo to his chest and began to knead at his stomach with one hand again. He felt like a beach ball had expanded in his belly, or a water balloon, sloshy and taut, and it was too tender for him to take anything but shallow, gentle breaths.

“Why do you look like a beached whale?” Blue asked, pushing his sweaty hair off his forehead. She was wearing a very fetching tiny top that appeared to be crocheted at least partially out of ribbon. Her hair clips were losing the fight against her frizz, and she smelled like basil and fresh fruit, fresh and sweet and inviting. Despite his overfull stomach, Gansey thought of parfaits.

His belly protested again, and he pressed a hand to it gently, and Blue moved his hand to replace it with her own. “Wow,” she said. “Now I _really_ want to know what you did.” 

“I just had a milkshake!” he said. “It’s just sitting … very heavily.”

“I thought you got ice cream sandwiches,” she said. “Did you have those _and_ a milkshake?”

He shook his head. “No, they were _for_ a milkshake.”

She furrowed her brow at him. Gansey, already short of breath, went breathless at how adorable it was.

“You know,” he said. “Haven’t you made homemade milkshakes before? That seems like a Fox Way thing to do.”

“Sure I have,” she said. “With ice cream and milk, like a regular person.”

Gansey examined his memories carefully. Was it possible he’d gotten it wrong? He remembered vividly the first time Ronan had said, _This place is a fucking heat trap_ , before they’d installed the window units. Gansey had replied, _Let’s get gelato then,_ and Ronan had said, _Fuck it, let’s make milkshakes_.

 _We don’t have a blender,_ said Gansey. In hindsight, Ronan could have dreamt them one, but neither of them had known the extent of his abilities then, so instead Ronan had shrugged and said, _So what? We can buy one_.

He remembered Ronan leading him to the frozen food aisle, tossing him a box of store-brand ice cream sandwiches. _The shitty ones are better_.

Gansey had not known how to make milkshakes. He’d only ever experienced them fully formed, and it had charmed him that Ronan knew, as he did with cars and ramps and various other dangerous objects, how to create them from scratch. He had watched, fascinated and fond, as Ronan had dumped the box of ice cream sandwiches into their brand-new blender. _This is how my dad used to make them for us_ , Ronan said, smooshing down the sandwiches with a spoon, then dousing them with milk. The whole process had struck Gansey as incredibly quaint. He couldn’t imagine a childhood where his father had made milkshakes with him for fun instead of purchasing them to keep him quiet on car rides.

He relayed all of this to Blue now, and watched her eyes go wider and wider.

“That is _not_ how regular people make milkshakes,” she said, climbing onto his thighs. “You have been gravely misinformed.”

“That’s how the Lynches do it,” he argued, already too uncomfortable to protest the added warmth of her body heat on his.

“The Lynches aren’t regular people.”

He couldn’t argue that, and he didn’t have time to try, because Blue continued, “How many ice cream sandwiches are in a box? Ten?! Jeez, Gansey. Did you, like, think about that? You basically ate ten ice cream sandwiches. No wonder you’re suffering.”

“Oh, I was suffering regardless,” he assured her, and she closed her eyes and shook her head.

“Ten ice cream sandwiches,” she said, rolling her eyes ceilingward. She dug her thumbs into the soft, wobbly skin of his underbelly, and he sighed at the pressure. “And milk!”

“It was half and half,” he corrected, “and coffee creamer,” because he thought it was the sort of detail she might like. She gave him a wild, personally attacked sort of look, and he counted that as having been proven right. “I added some coffee creamer for taste." 

“For _taste_!” She jiggled his belly. “No wonder you’re ready to burst.”

He groaned, arousal flickering in the pit of his stomach. He was too hot to think about arousal, he thought. But he wanted to hear a little more of her disbelief, so he said, “I had ice cream for breakfast and lunch. A pint each. I was trying to stay cool.”

Blue almost fell off his lap. “Jesus, Gansey!” 

“I was hot!” he whined. “I was built for controlled climates.”

“Didn’t you used to globe-trot all the time?” she fired back, gently grabbing a handful of his stomach. Her warmth on his legs was starting to feel welcome somehow, rather than insufferable. “You can’t tell me that you were like this out in the jungle. Someone would have left you there a long time ago.”

He laughed, then winced when it jostled his gut. “I was used to it then,” he said. “And besides, most of the places on our ley line are pretty temperate. Or they’ve got air-co.”

“You were used to it _then_?” she asked, leaning down to kiss his belly. “What happened?”

“Can’t you tell?” he teased. “I became very soft and spoiled. I need to be kept cool at all times or I overheat.” He took her hand from his stomach and kissed each fingertip, then each knuckle. “I’m a little too heavy for jungle climates these days, I think. Too out of shape.” 

This was not strictly the truth -- in cooler weather, in _reasonable_ weather, he could hike just fine, and he thought his long-term endurance might have even improved, but in weather like this, even the stairs to his apartment had bested him.

Blue looked pleased and tortured and faint. “You’re not too heavy,” she managed, patting his plump belly. “Very soft, definitely spoiled, mostly by me, but not too heavy.”

Gansey’s and Blue’s phones dinged in unison, and he was too sluggish to reach for his own, so Blue wormed it out of the pocket of his shorts and compared notes with her own.

“It’s Henry,” she said. “He wants details on this milkshake.”

Gansey laughed, imagining Henry’s amazement dogpiling on Blue’s, a soft, cool cushion of affection for him to sink into. “Let’s call him,” he said, struggling to sit up around his bloated belly. “But on one condition.”

“Hmm?”

“We go to your dorm,” he said, a little wild with relief at the very thought. “Where it is civilized and air-conditioned.”

Blue kissed his forehead. “Deal. And I get to feed you the other box of ice cream sandwiches?”

Gansey cracked a smile in spite of himself. “Negotiable.”

**Author's Note:**

> at least nominally i banged this out for the "get beached" fic event on tumblr, but alas i did not follow any of the rules regarding prompt challenges. i hope you enjoyed it anyway! thank you for reading!


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